


Tumbled

by KyeShgall



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyeShgall/pseuds/KyeShgall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An archive of my F!Hawke/Varric fic from Tumblr. Posted here in case of catastrophic Tumblr failure - or something. It's good to have a back up archive. I'll post little by little and add to the tags as I go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rooftop, Bedroom, Wilderness

**Rooftop**

Varric eyed the half full mug of ale sitting innocuously on the barroom table. Then he looked at Hawke, her chin cradled in the palm of one hand. She glared at the mug with a vicious intensity that would have brought a smile to Varric’s face if not for the whole bleary-eyed look she was sporting, which suggested recent tears.

“You want me to kill it for you?” he asked, indicating the mug. “One shot, quick and easy. Just you say the word.”

Hawke looked at him without even the hint of a smile, which didn’t bode well. She was typically quick with a smile or a laugh, especially when it was for him. In fact, if she weren’t a human, Varric would have seriously considered the possibility that she might be genuinely attracted to him and not just flirting for the fun of it. Of course, she wasn’t flirting now. And whatever was going on, it was serious.

“Were you… waiting for someone?” he asked, aware that she didn’t typically stop by the Hanged Man just for drinks.

She nodded. “For you,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

“What’s the matter, Hawke?” He started to pull up a chair, but stopped at Hawke’s whispered “no.”

“Not here,” she said, glancing across the room to where Norah stood, mug in hand, waiting at the bar for Corff to finish pouring a second pint. The lunch crowd had scattered and the earliest evening patrons had begun to trickle in. “Is there somewhere quiet?”

“My suite?” 

Hawke downed the last of her pint in one giant gulp, then stood up and followed Varric to his room. But instead of entering, she lingered in the doorway. “Actually, I don’t want to talk here. Is there anywhere… unfamiliar we can go?” When he looked at her, puzzled, she added. “I don’t want to think about this conversation the next time I’m playing cards at your table. You know?”

Varric scratched behind his ear, his fingers glancing against the smooth solidity of his earrings. “There’s a way to the roof,” he said after a moment’s consideration. Then he looked at Hawke, eyebrows raised, waiting for her verdict.

She nodded and, once again, fell into step behind him.

After a winding climb up narrow, hidden stairways that Hawke had never seen before, they reached a landing where an old wooden ladder led to a trap door in the ceiling. The door, little used, was stuck, but Varric shouldered his way through, then reached down to offer Hawke a hand if she wanted it. She accepted and pulled herself upward, while Varric found himself wishing he’d had the foresight to take off his gloves. All of sudden he wanted to touch her, skin to skin, gripping her palm and feeling its warmth.

But the moment passed and Hawke, blinking back sunlight, had already let go. Her long stride carried her quickly to the edge of the roof and she looked out over the Lowtown hexes that sloped away from them towards the docks. Varric joined her there, resting his elbows on the ledge and peering straight down to the Hanged Man’s front door.

He was about to point out that a spitting contest aiming for the tops of people’s heads would have made a good excuse for coming up there if she decided she didn’t feel like talking after all. But Hawke spoke first, a torrent of words spilling out.

“Today it’s three years since Carver died. And I grieved him already, Varric. I thought it was done. Put away. But next week is a year since Bethany left with the Wardens. And it’s all stirred up again. Beth and Carver… they shared my childhood like no other person. And they’re both gone, one lost to death and the other… soon to be dead? Every courier, I fear, brings word of tragedy. And her death, when it comes, will be my fault. I should have left her safe at home…”

“Hey,” he said, touching Hawke’s arm to interrupt her. “No. You couldn’t have known.”

His gloves were safely stowed in his pockets this time, allowing his hands to feel the warmth and muscle of her forearm despite the rough cloth of her shirt that came between them. Her mother had outfitted her with a wardrobe full of finer clothing, but the courser cloth still suited her. Rare were the days when Hawke walked through Kirkwall dressed like the noble she was.

She looked down at him, her eyes brighter than they should have been, but she fought to hold back tears.

“You can cry, Hawke. I promise I won’t tell anybody.” His voice was gentle, soothing its way past her defenses.

She drew a gasping breath, but then, blinking quickly, she rallied to maintain control. Her success came only in half measure – she held back the tears in one eye, but the other overflowed in a messy rivulet, glimmering down her cheek.

“Oh, Varric,” she said, wiping her face with her shirtsleeve.

He stroked along her other arm, gently, to soothe her with only his fingertips. “I’m here,” he said.

Hawke looked at him again, her face streaked with the tears that now flowed freely. “Is it wrong,” she said, stuttering as a sob hitched into her voice. “Is it wrong that I want you to hold me?”

His eyebrows rose. They did; they shot right up. And he couldn’t hide it, except with his voice. “No,” he said, still using that smooth, soothing tone, “of course not. Come here, Hawke.”

Relief flooded through her and she practically stumbled to her knees. “Careful,” Varric said, reaching for her in an attempt to ease her landing. But she was already crashing against him, her arms encircling his neck – which, fortunately, was thick enough to handle being squeezed by a Hawke in need of comfort.

So there he was, standing on the roof of the Hanged Man, his arms wrapped around her as he cradled her head against his neck, stroking her hair and trying to be the comforting friend she needed. When Hawke, sobbing softly, nuzzled her wet nose against him and stroked his hair in return, Varric shifted his hips away from her with as much subtlety as he could muster. He certainly wasn’t hard… yet. But that whole reaction was starting. And it really wasn’t welcome right now.

If he ever did decide to own up to his attraction to Hawke – and face the swift (and hopefully metaphorical) slap of rejection that human women typically bestowed upon dwarves who got too familiar – it certainly wasn’t going to happen while Hawke was grieving. She needed him right now – as a friend. And that was exactly what he was going to be: the best friend a human woman ever had. 

And if her whispered “thank you” did feel a little like a kiss to his neck, well, he chalked it up to the vagaries of crying against a best friend’s shoulder. Surely that and nothing more.

**Bedroom**

Hawke couldn’t sleep. She slid a hand between her legs to touch herself - still wet from lovemaking - and she tried to regain the sense of peace and well-being that had suffused her in the immediate wake of orgasm. But the heaviness in her heart remained, too strong to be overcome by remembered physical comfort. She rolled over in bed and pressed her body against the naked warmth of Varric’s back. To her surprise, he wasn’t sleeping either.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked, shifting his shoulders so he could reach around to stroke Hawke’s hip, his thumb kneading slow circles the way she liked.

“No,” she said. “I’m tired of talking. I just want them all to work it out on their own time and be my friends again.”

“Anders and Merrill?” he said.

“And Fenris. And Aveline. Really, who isn’t upset with me at the moment?”

“Well,” Varric said, craning his neck so that he could see her face from the corner of his eye, “I’m not. And Bianca’s always been fond of you.”

She slipped her arm around him, running her fingers through his chest hair and squeezing him tight against her. “What would I do without the two of you?”

“You wouldn’t have slain half as many dragons as what I give you credit for.”

“I knew there’d be a down side,” she whispered, nipping his ear as some of her playfulness returned.

“Right,” he said. “And if you wanted stories told about you, you’d have to rely on Isabela. And I think we both know what sort of adventures you’d get up to in her tall tales.”

Hawke hummed with laughter. Her heart still ached, but it was hard not to gain some buoyancy with a clever sweetheart like Varric beside her.

**Wilderness**

One night remained before she had to leave and the last thing Hawke wanted to do was cry through all of it.

Tears wouldn’t change the inevitable. This she knew. And in the afternoon she’d been able to stave them off by keeping herself busy. But now - with her clothes mended, her knapsack full to the point of overflow, and all her blades sharpened not once but twice – she had nothing left to do but sit down to eat dinner. And cry.

Varric sat beside her at their table, which was small but serviceable, its uneven leg bolstered by a broad, flat stone. The table leaned a little, too, but it didn’t wobble much. They knew how to be careful with it, the same way they had to be careful with all the makeshift furniture that outfitted their cramped, countryside shack – which they’d turned into a home these past few months.

At first they’d been hopeful – so certain they could ride out the tempest and, in a little while, return to their lives, none the worse for wear. But the commotion refused to die down and, far from losing interest, the Chantry and the Templars had only intensified their search for the errant Champion of Kirkwall. And so Hawke had to go – and not just deeper into the wilderness. She had to find safety in anonymity, which meant she’d need to travel far, beyond the Free Marches, to someplace Varric couldn’t follow. His life and his business belonged in Kirkwall. And he’d been away for much too long already.

The worst part about sharing a meal with him now was that she could hardly look at his face without the waterworks starting anew. And that just added insult to injury. She wanted to spend their parting night in laughter and lovemaking. But how could that happen when even glancing at him was enough to agitate the raw wound inside her? Her own weakness was going to ruin the sweet goodbye she’d hoped for. Hawke wasn’t just sorrowful, she was angry and embarrassed at her own lack of control.

She hunched over her plate, huddled into herself in an attempt to hide and seek comfort, but all she could do was weep. She didn’t even try to stop teardrops from rolling off her nose to splash onto her delicious dinner of pheasant and roasted apples. Varric had cooked for her – a little kindness that, like everything else, just made the awfulness of her departure hurt the more.

When she reached in her empty pocket attempting to locate the handkerchief she’d unfortunately already packed, Varric anticipated the problem. As soon as the crestfallen look of realization struck Hawke’s face, he touched her arm and squeezed with gentle pressure.

“Here,” he said, offering his own clean handkerchief.

She took it from him, just to wipe her face. But somehow she ended up with her knees pressing painfully into the hard dirt floor and her arms encircling both him and the chair.

“Come on,” Varric said, helping her up. “let’s find someplace softer.”

Dwarf-human love could lead to a lot of creatively awkward positions and they’d both learned the hard way that anything involving kneeling on this floor was a quick route to pain. He slipped an arm around her waist and guided Hawke towards their bed. As far as he was concerned, dinner could wait a while. At the moment, Hawke needed care-taking more than she needed food. And though Varric was loathe to admit it, so did he.

They fell into bed, fully clothed, and snuggled together in a comforting embrace. Varric lay beneath her, serving as Hawke’s pillow. She pressed her nose against him, breathing his scent. And though neither of them spoke, the physical comfort alone was enough to soothe her, drying her tears. Little by little, her breath began to synchronize with the steady rise and fall of Varric’s chest.

“You’re forgetting something,” Varric said, at last breaking the silence. He stroked her hair away from her face and smiled down at her.

She looked at him through red-rimmed eyes. “I packed everything,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I had a list.”

His chuckle rolled through him and the sound or the feel of it pleased Hawke enough that she smiled, just like always.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “You’re forgetting that I’m your biographer.”

Hawke blinked. She had no idea what he was talking about, but there was something rich and mischievous in his voice – a lilt perhaps. It was the same clever trick that had worked its magic on her years ago, making her notice the smooth-talking dwarf with a level of interest rather distinct from friendship. Now, his voice awoke something from the dullness inside her. Hopelessness began to change, suffused with the tingle of possibility.

“Riiiight,”she said, drawing out the vowel to mark her uncertainty.

“I’m the one writing this story,” he added, as if that were enough to make everything plain.

“And that means…”

“Oh, don’t play coy, Hawke. It’s cute, but we’re past that,” Varric said. “I’m the one writing this story and that means I know how it ends. And this is not an ending.”

“It isn’t?” she asked, lifting her head to look at him squarely.

“Of course not. It’s just another beginning.”

“Oh,” she said, a little of the hope dissipating. She’d been wishing for more than truisms and common wisdom.

“See,” he said and, suddenly, there was something in his hand – something small and bright. It was so close to her face she had to blink to focus on it.

“The way it ends,” he said, “is that we grow old together. You and me.”

“That’s a ring,” she said.

“You threaten to make an honest man out of me,” Varric continued. “That never happens, of course. But we do end up hitched. Don’t we?” And he was looking at her, uncertain, but smiling. And the question was hers to answer.

She took the ring from his fingers. It was beautiful, sparkling gold and green and red – all the colors that reminded her of Varric.

“Yes,” she whispered. Her eyes were glossy with tears, but this time they didn’t feel so tragic. “We do end up hitched,” she said, borrowing his turn of phrase. She smiled at him and slid the ring onto her finger.

In her despair at leaving, she’d forgotten that ever-important lesson she’d learned years ago – namely, not to underestimate the dwarf. Because this was Varric. And if anyone could find the words to soothe her aching heart, it was he.

“So there,” he said, holding up her hand, admiring the betrothal ring and the way it gleamed on her finger. “You and me. And I swear we have a couple of kids, but if I’m wrong about that detail, well… at least we try for it an awful lot.”

Hawke sighed, as content as she could be given the circumstance. The morning would come soon enough, but she was no longer willing to let that get the better of her.


	2. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This scene is meant to take place after the Silent Grove comic book series of adventures. A birthday gift ficlet for [FYV](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyeahvarric/pseuds/Fyeahvarric). The requested theme involved a massage, given by Hawke.

For three years she’d evaded Templars and Chantry seekers, but Hawke was only human and, therefore, she couldn’t outrun time. Time had seemed to turn liquid around her. It clung like a sweat, but rather than being exuded, it was creeping in through her pores, invading her joints to make every reflex just half a second slower. Tonight she could already feel the ache in her hands and she’d done nothing more than flex her fingers, preparing them for the massage she’d promised to give. It was going to be just like old times, ache be damned.

Varric lay beneath her. He was shirtless, but the red-gold of his chest hair was pressed to the sheets of his bed where Hawke could neither see it nor touch. Funny how time could be kind, bestowing favors as easily as it took them away. She straddled his thick waist and knew that later on, once her work on his back was done, she would straddle him in a different way to work another set of his muscles entirely. Just like old times.

Despite the radiant heat of the Hanged Man’s many braziers, a chill had sneaked in through the high open windows. The coolness of her hands made him shiver minutely. It was luck that she even saw it, nothing more than the twitch of his jaw and the ripple of a few downy hairs at the back of his neck. She could see his face more clearly now that it was still and in profile. He looked a little older, a little wearier than the man she remembered, the man she’d carried along with her in spirit all the days that she’d been gone.

She pressed her palms to the heat of his skin and drew a deep breath all the way down to her belly. Varric shifted beneath her and she rolled forward along his back, traversing a distance so small it would have been insignificant, but for his satisfied grunt of ‘that’s better’ and for the sudden throbbing pressure that rose between her thighs. She was wet for him already. She’d been like this all afternoon – turned on, ready to be dragged off to a bedroom, any bedroom, to be naked and fucked beneath him – ever since she’d heard his voice behind her as she sat at the bar. He had been gone, off on some adventure in Antiva. And for her first few days in Kirkwall, Hawke had been wracked with worry that he’d die out there, despite the fact that he had friends to watch his back. She was afraid she had come home at last only to have missed him forever.

But those fears were all behind her now. Her fingers dug into the thickness of muscle, searching out all the points of his tension. Where she found them, her thumbs delved deeper, rubbing hard circles as Varric groaned with the pain and pleasure of it.

“Hawke,” he said, naming her, his voice gone soft and all his smile lines creasing.

“Varric?”

“Everyone missed you.”

“Oh?” With the heel of her palm beneath his shoulder blade, she pressed down until he winced.

“Even me,” he said, chuckling a little then groaning again as another pocket of tension seemed to burst and melt away.

“Missed you, too,” she said and her own smile creased all the wrinkles time had bestowed. Hawke was simply glad to be with him, trading in understatements, just like old times.


	3. Crates and Contracts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DA2 fic  
> 6950 words  
> Varric helps F!Hawke move her shit to Hightown  
> Pairing: F!Hawke/Varric   
> Written for the kink meme   
> (yes, contains a smut)

Varric eyed the crates with skepticism. “You want _me_ to help you carry _those_? You've got to be shitting me.”

“I'll make it worth your while,” Hawke said with the suggestive lift of an eyebrow. And in case that weren't enough to convince him, she smoothed her hand along the curve of her hip and drew back her shoulder blades, thrusting out her chest.

Varric choked back a groan. He'd never admit it, but watching Hawke attempt flirtation pained him almost as much as sitting through a guild meeting. Of course, when she wasn't trying to seduce him—when she was just being herself, sauntering through Lowtown and stopping occasionally to inspect the merchants' wares or kicking back at The Hanged Man, nursing a mug of ale and toying idly with the buckles on her leather cuirass—he found her insanely alluring. The contrast only made her attempts at coquetry more awful.

Hawke leaned towards him, close as a conspirator, and whispered. “If you help me, I'll do that thing you mentioned.”

Only the most careful observer would have noticed how his muscles tensed to quell the grin before it even started. “How heavy are those crates?” he asked.

“Some of them are light.” Still leaning close, she glanced over her shoulder and nodded to the farthest crate. “That one's light.”

Varric snorted. “Why haven't you hired someone? We're richer than viscounts.”

Straightening up, Hawke turned and walked towards the wall of Gamlen's hovel where she'd stacked fourteen crates full of treasure and trinkets and other odds and ends. She lifted a couple of them at their corners, testing their weight. “Ah, here. This one's also light!” She released the corner, causing the crate in question to drop with a heavy thud. “ _Rather_ light,” Hawke qualified. “Or... medium, perhaps.”

Varric crossed his arms in front of him, waiting for an answer to his question.

Hawke sighed, her hopeful smile fading. “Funny thing is, no one's available for hire. I even offered the last fellow five sovereigns. Who in Lowtown would say no to that?”

“Let me guess,” Varric said, rubbing his chin. “He said no.”

“He didn't say anything. He just clammed up and sort of slinked away.” Hawke's eyes narrowed as a thought came to her. “ _You_ wouldn't know about this, would you, Varric?”

“No, why would I... know... anything...” As he spoke the last two words, his eyebrows lifted. Written on his face was a look of realization, plain for all to see.

Hawke seized upon it. “Varric, why won't anyone help me?”

“I may have heard some grumbling from the merchant's guild.” He raised his gloved hands, palms facing forward in a placating gesture. “I would have told you if I'd thought it was serious.”

“What sort of grumbling?”

“Oh, something about humans striking it rich in the Deep Roads. 'Stealing the treasure of our ancestors.' Typical stuff. Hardly worth the price of an assassination contract.”

Hawke's mouth dropped open. “You mean to tell me there are dwarven assassins after me?”

“It's... possible,” he admitted. “And... maybe... no one will take your coin because they're all afraid of getting killed for it. By those same assassins.”

“Oh. Perfect.” Hawke looked to the table where she'd left her twin blades. She had been looking forward to a lull in her days of bloodshed and adventure. Apparently she'd begun her holiday a tad prematurely.

Before she could reach her weapons, however, Varric interjected. “Let's not do anything rash. Like I said, I didn't think they were serious. I'll go talk to a few people and see if we can sort this out.”

"And if you can't 'sort this out'? What then?"

He glanced at her blades, then looked back to Hawke and grinned.

* * *

Hawke, left alone with her thoughts while Varric sought out his guild contacts, decided that Gamlen wouldn't miss the half block of cheese, already growing hard and translucent at its edges. She leaned against the table and carved off big slices, which she proceeded to eat, one by one. She chewed politely with her mouth shut, bad manners having lost much of their appeal without a mother nearby to object.

Leandra had moved to the estate days ago to clean the place top to bottom with her own two hands and thus make peace with her long-dead parents. If Hawke were lucky, her mother would have roasts and pies and thick ales waiting. A sudden twinge of fear for Leandra's safety evaporated as she remembered the mabari. Even the cleverest assassin would think twice before meddling with two hundred pounds of angry war dog. And for once, Hawke felt reassured that rank upon rank of armed templars now stood between Bethany and Kirkwall's free masses.

Nor was she worried for her personal safety. She'd dealt with assassins before. The last batch had been Carta, brainwashed by Corypheus and out for blood, not money. Those dwarves had been dangerous precisely because they would brook no deals. Merchant dwarves, on the other hand, thrived on making concessions for mutual profit. Perhaps she could sell them her maps of the Deep Roads, marked to reveal the spoils she'd been forced to leave behind.

She trusted Varric to work out the details. Though not the savviest merchant in Kirkwall, he was undoubtedly the cleverest bullshitter. If someone had told her a year and a half ago that she'd partner with a tale telling dwarf, beardless but with chest hair to compensate, and that after their return from an underground mission for treasure she'd successfully put the moves on him one night and wake up as his sore and satisfied bedmate, well, she would have searched for a better prognosticator. But that's what had happened. And for once in her life, she was happy to straddle that murky space between friendship and romantic love without wishing to rush things along.

She and Varric had a good thing going. Hawke knew she could count on him no matter the trouble at hand. So it hardly phased her when, hours later, as the sun crept away from its zenith, Varric returned to Gamlen's place, not alone, but with a miscellany of friends and acquaintances in tow. Fenris and Aveline stood out from the rabble, the elf for the color of his hair and the captain for the gleam of her armor. Isabela sauntered through the doorway with a wink for the ex-templar Samson as she squeezed between a pair of dwarves, Anso and Worthy. Hawke noted dock workers and merchants, templar recruits and Alienage elves. By her best count there were well over twenty people crowding into the humble dwelling.

Varric nodded his greeting, but spared no time for words. He directed the crowd as, two persons per crate, they began to lift and carry away Hawke's worldly possessions.

Isabela sidled up and slung her arm across Hawke's shoulders. “Impressive, isn't it? He's forgiving debts in exchange for helping you. Now I know for sure.”

“What's that?” Hawke asked, taking the bait despite her better judgment.

“You're better in bed than you are at flirting.”

With a kiss to Hawke's cheek, Isabela was gone. She darted to Fenris's aid, stealing the other half of his burden from guardsman Brennan, who simply shrugged, not caring enough to protest. She went for the next crate alongside Aveline, who caught Hawke's eye.

“You owe me, Hawke,” the ginger captain said, then grunted as she hefted her load. “I'm here as a charity to you. Don't forget it.”

“I wouldn't dare,” Hawke promised, hand placed firmly on her breast in solemn oath or imitation of it.

As the last of the help filed out, leaving one lonesome crate in the corner, Varric approached her grinning. “That one's ours,” he said. “It's the light one.”

“Your talk with the guild went well, then?”

“More or less,” he said. “Come on, we'll talk on the way.” Hawke was just unpredictable enough that, if he had to be the bearer of bad news, he preferred to wait until her hands were full and her weapons sheathed.

* * *

Even the lightest crate grew heavy as they carried it across Lowtown and up several dozen stairs. Varric had to contend with the additional trouble of climbing them backwards, which proved to be the only comfortable way to deal with the height difference. Hawke glared at him over the top of the crate.

“So let me see if I understand correctly,” she said. “I'm allowed to keep my profits so long as I don't spend them? Your merchant's guild doesn't actually think I'll agree to that, do they?”

“Well, no. That's why it's just one of the options they're offering. The other option is, you can split the profits with them, fifty-fifty.”

Hawke's expression appeared as if she'd swallowed something rancid. “We fought for those riches. I'm not splitting anything with a cohort of money grubbing cowards. They can find their own way to the Deep Roads if they want their share.”

“That's more or less what I told them you'd say.”

“Ah,” Hawke said, “I should have worn gloves.” Made slippery with sweat, her fingers shifted as she strained to keep her half of the burden aloft. “Ow, shit. Splinter. Can we stop?”

Varric smirked at her. “Will you still do that thing I mentioned if I say 'no'?” But already he was setting down his side of the crate, leaving it perched on a step that was not quite broad enough to hold it securely. It tilted, threatening to fall, but he caught it just in time and weighted it down with his elbow.

Hawke, meanwhile, sat on the step, examining her palm. “So what do we do,” she asked as she wiped away droplets of blood and began coaxing a sliver of wood from her hand, “fight the whole dwarven merchant's guild?”

Varric, watching her, allowed himself a smile that vanished long before Hawke turned to look at him. “No,” he said, “I wouldn't advise that. There is... one other option. That I... negotiated.”

“All right. Let's hear it.” Having extracted the splinter, she rubbed her sore palm and eyed the old crate with an incriminating glare. “What's in this thing, anyway? If it's the scarves and the boots, I'm about ready to toss it.”

“First, let me just say that even fifty percent of your share is an awful lot of money, Hawke. You'd still be one of the richest humans in Hightown.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked as she pried a loose slat at the top of the crate and attempted to peer inside.

“You might not like the third option much.”

“I can't like or dislike anything until I've heard it, can I?” Then, squinting into the crate, she added, “Damn. It's scarves but also the kitchenware. Mother would flay me alive if I tossed it.”

She stood up and wiped her hands on her trousers. On Hawke's count of three, they lifted again and resumed their progress to Hightown.

“All right,” Varric said once they'd found a comfortable stride. “If you were to, say, contractually ally your house with mine, you could keep all of it.”

“What does that mean?” Hawke asked. “What sort of contractual alliance are you- Oh.” Understanding dawned on her and she stopped in her tracks. “A marriage contract.”

“That would be the one.”

* * *

Her fingers still ached. Sweat and the awkward motion of lifting had hitched her shirt, which now twisted beneath the buckles of her armor to chafe against skin. To make matters worse, she and Varric had reached the spot on the stairs that always stank like day old piss. By all rights, she should have been irritated. But if so, Varric couldn't tell. As soon as he'd broken the bad news, Hawke's mood had shifted. She'd turned into capable Hawke—all business and bad puns—beautiful, deadly, exciting, a woman who scoured the city in search of posted jobs too shady for the chanter's board-

She cleared her throat, interrupting her friend's inner narrative. “I thought your guild was all about dwarves marrying dwarves.”

Varric blinked, his attention drawn back to the scene at hand. He glanced over his shoulder, taking note of the landing a few steps above them as he continued his progress backwards and up the stairs to Hightown.

“To be honest, they only offered it as a slap in the face. They were trying to offend us both and get you to settle for fifty-fifty as the only reasonable option.”

As Varric cleared the final step, he lifted the crate higher, which was awkward, but a safer way to correct for the height difference than by having Hawke crouch down. Unfortunately, it robbed him of the view, which meant he'd also lost the ability to judge Hawke's demeanor by the look on her face. But he could figure out plenty from the unyielding tone of her voice.

“You can tell them I'm keeping all of it and spending it however I wish,” she said.

“Which they'll agree to,” he mumbled from behind the crate, “for the price of a husband.”

“I can't even see you,” she said.

Now that they'd reached the landing, with only one set of stairs left before the Hightown market, they had room enough to set their burden down without the fear of it toppling down stairs and splintering apart as it fell. Hawke sat on the top step, leaned back against the crate, and stretched her sore fingers. When she glanced at Varric, who took a seat beside her, the look on her face was all business.

“I am not moving into a tavern. And, Maker knows, I can't imagine you'd move out.”

Varric shrugged. “So what? All they'd expect is a document signed.”

“That's all?” She sounded skeptical.

“I doubt they'd stick around to see that it's consummated, if that's what you're thinking.”

Despite her best attempts to remain stern, Hawke smiled. “Well,” she said, mulling over the possibility of actually signing the document in question. “What about an heir?”

“Does this look like Orzammar to you? No one cares about that. Except, possibly, my family. And they're used to being thwarted.” Examining a new scuff on the sleeve of his duster, Varric privately cursed himself.

“Your opinion?” Hawke asked. When he still didn't look at her, she took hold of his arm, thus distracting him from the serious business of searching his coat for more damage.

Varric chuckled his answer. “They won't be expecting a stunt like this out of me. Married to a human! If I'm lucky, they'll stop inviting me to family parties.”

“Charming,” she said, rolling her eyes to indicate her impending loss of patience. “I _meant_ your professional opinion.”

“I like you better when you're telling bad jokes and trying to hit on me, you know that, right?”

Hawke held up her fist, looked at it, and then looked back at Varric. She was bluffing, of course. Unable to maintain the serious facade that such threats required, she smiled. A light, playful punch was the only harm she inflicted before settling back against the crate to gaze up at the darkening sky.

“Do you really think this is the best option?”

Varric sighed. “You want my honest answer? Signing a piece of paper's a lot easier than giving guild assassins another reason to come calling. Not to mention the difficulty of being caught in the middle of my two conflicting business interests.”

“Is that what I am? Your business interest?”

He met her indignation with a sly grin. “Yeah, Hawke, that's all you are. Do you want to hear the bad pun about me sinking all my assets into you?”

“Let's save that one for later this evening.” She rubbed her sore hands again, knowing full well that she couldn't put off the inevitable much longer. “As for signing contracts, I'll think about it.”

“Right,” said Varric as he got to his feet. “Guild war it is then.”

“No, really, I'll think about it.”

What that meant was that she'd have talk to her mother—and sooner rather than later.

* * *

Hawke's hands wept from torn blisters by the time she and Varric set the fourteenth crate among its brethren. Outside, dusk had fallen and the lamps were being lit. The contingent of hired movers had long since departed, leaving only Hawke, Varric, and the wall of stacked crates, which—so overwhelming in Gamlen's abode—now appeared insignificant in the grand foyer of the Amell estate.

“Perhaps I should have packed more things,” she said, rubbing her chin as she surveyed her packed belongings. A moment later, when she realized that her chin was now damp and her hand stinging from the pain of contact, she pulled her hand away and glared at it.

“Have you got a health potion on you?” she asked Varric, holding up her palm for him to see the damage.

“Sure, I always have a-” Feeling in his pockets where he usually kept a stash of potions, he pulled out one small bottle, cracked and leaking liquid onto his gloves. The pocket of his duster was stained dark with spilled potion. “Shit.”

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “I'm sure I've packed a few extra potions in one of these boxes.”

“ _Don't worry about it?_ ” he echoed. “Hawke, this is my coat we're talking about.”

But he ignored the stain for now and set to work helping her pry open crates.

A short while later, Leandra found them sitting on the floor of the foyer combing through piles of junk. Empty glass bottles, cracked gemstones, and scraps of brightly colored cloth reminded her that her daughter had always been a magpie at heart. She could still see shades of her pigtailed child in the grown up Hawke, whose age had recently surpassed a quarter century. Now that their family dream had come true, nobility and hearth reclaimed, it would be time to find her daughter a suitable husband. In that, Leandra had her work cut out for her.

“Aha! Got you!” Hawke's elated cry interrupted her mother's thoughts. The younger woman clutched a bottle of pinkish liquid, which she uncorked and drank in one long swig.

“I should have you clean this mess immediately,” Leandra said as she surveyed the scattered contents of half a dozen crates. “But dinner's ready and if you wash up nicely I'll pretend I haven't seen any of this. Varric, would you care to dine with us?”  
  
“Would I? Madam, how could I refuse?”

And so Leandra led them through the main hall and into the study, where she stopped at the pair of bookcases to the left of the fireplace. At the pull of a hidden latch, they opened outward like double doors, revealing a hidden doorway to the kitchen and the servants' quarters beyond.

“I'm afraid we're forced to dine at the servants' table. The dining room furniture was damaged beyond repair and I haven't been able to acquire replacements.”

“There's no need to apologize, Mother. We don't even have servants yet. And besides,” Hawke said, gesturing to the small table where a pot of stew served as the steaming centerpiece, “this is far nicer than any table of Gamlen's.”

Leandra gave her daughter a look, which Hawke recognized as the a _lways be charitable when you speak of your uncle_ glare. Tempted as she was to talk back to her mother, Hawke knew better. Tonight's conversation would be tense enough without any added argument about Gamlen's role in the family. Biting her tongue, she turned from Leandra and made her way to the washbasin.

After she and Varric had washed and taken their seats, Leandra again voiced her regrets for the lack of proper furniture. “It's odd,” she said. “And something I'd like you to look into.”

“What's that?” Hawke mumbled, her mouth full.

Leandra frowned, but otherwise ignored her daughter's lapse of manners. “Well, I had no difficulty refurbishing the bedrooms and part of the library, but by the time I was ready to make the rest of my purchases, all our accounts had been frozen.”

Hawke swallowed her food and chased it down with a hearty gulp of wine. Varric's eyes darted from one woman to the other. And Leandra noticed all of it.

“You know something about this,” she said, watching both her daughter and her dinner guest. “And you're keeping it from me.”

“Yes,” Hawke agreed. “But we're about to tell you everything.”

* * *

“I think we could live off fifty percent,” Leandra declared as she poured herself another full goblet of wine. “We're accustomed to being frugal and if we only hire servants for special occasions...”

“But it's not about the money, is it?” Hawke said. “It's about the point. And the point is, I'm not out there risking my life on adventures so that clerks and shipping agents can get fat without lifting a finger.”

Varric would have paid good gold for a quill and some parchment. _This_ was the Hawke he wanted in his stories—the ballsy malcontent who would fight to the death before she'd give in to cheats and swindlers (never mind that sometimes she was one.)

“Besides,” Hawke said, “it's only a contract. If the end result is we keep our wealth and spend it as we please, I think that's the only reasonable option.”

“Well,” said Leandra. “It sounds like you've made up your mind.”

“I've thought about it from all angles,” Hawke said. “Signing this contract is the one option that doesn't set a dangerous precedent. I can't have every upstart in Kirkwall blackmailing me for profit.”

Leandra looked from Hawke to Varric, shook her head, and reached for her goblet. The wine burned down her throat, warming her, and granting her the courage she needed to speak on behalf of her household.

“But you _haven't_ thought from all angles,” she said. “You're speaking of a marriage contract. And no matter how farcical it is, it's binding. Think about that. What happens when you're ready to get married?”

Hawke cocked her head, puzzled. “But I am ready to get married. That's what we're talking about.”

Leandra's voice was sharp; her answer, scolding. “It is my duty as your mother to help you find a husband. A real, suitable husband. Not a dwarven business partner.”

Varric raised an eyebrow and stifled the urge to interject. He wasn't sure how this would play out, but for now it was probably best not to make himself a target.

Hawke shook her head. “How is this not what you want for me? Since we set foot in Kirkwall, all you have told me about marriage is that I will have to make choices for the good of the family. Right now that is exactly what I'm doing. Do you think I _want_ this?”

Varric looked at her, shocked. That certainly wasn't the line he'd expected to hear. Not from a woman who made no effort to rein in the raptured look on her face on those nights when he growled her name before coming inside her. He took a sip of his wine and swallowed his wounded pride down with it. But before he could speak, Hawke's shoulders slumped and again she spoke to her mother.

“I haven't been truthful with you.”

“What?” said Leandra.

“I've been hiding the truth from you. All those nights when I said I was out helping Aveline? Well, I haven't been helping her. I've been involved with someone. A man.”

“Involved?” Leandra said. “You've been going to bed with someone?”

“Yes,” Hawke said. “I have been. And just between the three of us...” She glanced at Varric. “I think he's wonderful. But it's too soon to be anything more than... a beginning. And I'm terribly worried that this whole marriage business is going to get in the way. Make a mess of everything.” She drew a deep breath and looked to her mother. “But I'm willing to do it anyway. For the sake of our family.”

Varric had told enough stories to know a thing or two about timing. Before Leandra could even ask the question, he was off his chair and at Hawke's side, wrapping his arms around her even as she turned to draw him closer. He caught her chin, she touched his face, and they kissed—mouths open, breath grown heavy, all of it in front of Leandra, who watched them for a moment and then raised her goblet to finish off her wine in one long swill.

* * *

They broke apart and Leandra, who had been watching the spectacle of the kiss unfold before her, now blinked and looked at her hand, which she'd raised to her mouth without having realized. She had been chewing the thumbnail—something she typically chided her daughter for doing.

“Some tea?” she offered.

When Hawke nodded, Leandra breathed a sigh of relief. Standing at the hearth and tending to the kettle was just the simple task she needed in order to escape and collect her thoughts.

“I always hoped my children would find a better way,” she said, filling the silence with the first words that came to mind. She hung the kettle and then reached for the poker. Prodding a heavy log from where it had settled, Leandra raised it, allowing the flames to lick beneath. “Not the marriage my parents offered me. Nor the one I chose for myself when I left Kirkwall with your father. A compromise.” She looked over her shoulder and offered her daughter a feeble smile. “But I didn't expect it would look anything like this.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Hawke asked, brow furrowed.

“Nothing,” Leandra said. “Nothing at all.” She set three empty tea cups on the table and met her daughter's eyes. “Maker only knows, perhaps you've got it right after all.”

At Hawke's inquisitive look, Leandra continued. “Magic has always been the curse of this family. Perhaps we ought to have been having babies with dwarves all along...”

“Mother! This is strictly professional.”

“I noticed,” Leandra said, with a smile so sly that Varric, who had carefully maintained his silence, now chuckled in wicked delight.

“Don't encourage her,” said Hawke, who was already realizing that she'd have her work cut out for her if she wished to convince her mother that this arrangement was best referred to as a contractual alliance and not a marriage.

Leandra removed the kettle from the fire and poured hot water into the waiting teapot. “Will your business associate be staying the night?”

Hawke gave her a look, half indignant, half shocked at her mother's dry wit.

“In fact we do have some business to settle,” Varric said.

“She's just like her mother. A scandal waiting to happen, they used to call me.” She smiled at the memory then turned her attention back to her daughter. “Do try to be quiet about it,” she said as Hawke looked away, blushing. “And for Maker's sake, keep the curtains drawn. Neighbors in Hightown have no shame when it comes to watching at windows.”

Hawke, who had never been fond of woman to woman talks with her mother, was starting to look as desperate as a trapped animal—and just as willing to chew off a foot or two if it would have spared her from further torture.

Varric, who couldn't bear to let a perfect moment like this escape him, elbowed her once to catch her attention. “It's sweet that your family approves, Hawke. Mine certainly won't.”

“You wouldn't have it any other way,” she said as she worked to recover, if not her dignity, then at least her trollish thick skin.

“True,” he said and, grinning broadly, reached for the teapot to pour himself a cup.

* * *

Varric's half empty tea cup sat on a crate by the bed (since a proper bedside table existed only on the list of furnishings yet to be acquired.) Hawke lay on the bed, her back supported by pillows, her long legs crossed at the ankles. Varric lounged beside her. Every few minutes, she attempted to shimmy a little further out of her shirt—a move she would have sworn was seductive but for the fact that Varric seemed wholly unimpressed.

“Stop that,” he said each time she tried to bare more skin at her shoulders and neckline. “Keep reading.” He pointed to the book she held open in her lap.

“ _I stumbled into one of his traps..._ ” Hawke paused, clearing her throat. “ _..._ _and suddenly was hanging from a tree with a rope about my ankles._ Well, now we're getting somewhere.”

“It's not that sort of book,” Varric reminded her. “But don't stop now. You're getting to one of the good parts.”

“ _So there I was,_ ” Hawke read, “ _defenseless, upside down with my robe over my head, my underclothes on display._ ” She laughed. “It certainly sounds like that sort of book.”

“You can stop trying to make this sexual. It won't get you anywhere.”

Hawke couldn't tell for sure if he was lying. So she sighed and shut the book, buying some time as she worked to figure to it out. “I don't understand,” she said, running her fingers along the embossed cover of Brother Genitivi's most famous work. “If it's not sexual, how is this a turn on for you?”

“I don't know, Hawke, did you get turned on by me helping you move your shit to Hightown?”

“Riddles, Varric?”

He smirked at her.

“I'm not in the mood.”

“Really?” he said, and reached between her thighs to rub gently at the fabric of her trousers. “I'll bet you wet your smalls when I showed up with all my debts called in for you.”

“I...” she said, distracted by the way he increased the pressure of his touch before his hand drifted upward, angling for her belt buckle. “I may have appreciated that.”

“Similarly,” he said, slipping her belt from the buckle's catch, “I would appreciateyou reading _In Pursuit of Knowledge_.”

He shifted his position and, with both hands, eased her trousers down.

“But why?” she asked, watching the glint of his signet ring as he undid his own belt and let his trousers drop. He shuffled out of them until he, too, was wearing just a shirt and smalls.

“My books may be popular fiction, Hawke, but that doesn't mean they're simple. You need to read this,” he lifted the book from her hands and set it aside, “or you'll miss out on half my clever references.”

“Maker forbid,” she said, reaching for the waist of his smallclothes.

“Trust me,” Varric said, grinning, “I don't get hard over you reading Brother Genitivi aloud to me in bed.”

“You sure about that?” She let her hand fall, her fingers skimming the firmness of his cock, still tucked away beneath cloth.

“I get hard,” he said, lingering on the word, “for a different reason entirely.”

“Enlighten me,” she said, breathing the words more than she spoke them.

His gaze shifted to the wetness between her legs, evident by the way it darkened her smalls as it spread. “Patience, Hawke,” he said, still watching that dark spot as he lowered his smalls and knelt before her.

He touched her through wet fabric, rubbing slow circles with his thumb, but made no move to undress her further. “You'll have it all in just a minute,” he said. “I promise you that.”

Hawke had never been one for waiting, nor for keeping her hands to herself. Varric, who knew this about her, anticipated her move and made the perfect intercept. But rather than thwart her efforts, he guided her, and together they took hold of his cock. He grew harder, lengthening to his fullest measure under the rhythmic touch of his own thick fingers and Hawke's slender, cooler ones.

Her other hand slipped down to her smalls and she attempted to pull them down. Varric stopped her.

“Let me,” he said.

He slid his hands along the waistband until he held Hawke by the hips. He considered the merits of simply yanking down her smalls in one swift move. That had been the plan, but now he wasn't so sure. They were wetter now, clinging to her delightfully to reveal every contour of her flesh beneath the fabric. Instead of removing them immediately, he pulled Hawke forward, onto him, until her ass rested on his thighs and the dark crotch of her smalls was flush against him. Slowly, he began to move, as if he were fucking her, but instead of pushing between those thick, beautiful folds of her skin, he slid up and back along the cloth of her smalls.

She groaned at the simultaneous pleasure and frustration of the way he worked his cock against her. Her pleasure came not just from touch, but also from the sight of him. His cock was beautiful—thick, flexible in its strength, but so delicate if it ever missed its mark and bent the wrong way against her. She winced a little at the memory of Varric in pain—that one time when they'd been so drunk and she'd wanted him in her so desperately—as badly as she wanted him now.

Hawke worked hard to guard his privacy, since she knew what it meant to him, the dwarf who told so many stories but never wished to feature prominently in any of them. But sometimes yearned to tell someone—Isabela most likely—about all of this. About the gentleness of Varric's hands on her thighs. About the way he smiled during sex, distinct from every other smile she'd seen him wear except that it reminded her sometimes of the way he looked at Bianca. (She still wasn't sure what to think of that.) But most of all, she wanted to tell someone about the way Varric fit her, the way he filled her—as thick as she needed him to be and as long as she could comfortably take—although sometimes, when he really let himself go, pounding into her with all his strength... Sometimes, from a certain angle, it hurt. And he would stop immediately if she told him so, but she didn't always tell. (And she wasn't sure what to make of that, either.)

Tomorrow she would go with him to sign a piece of paper. And then she would have to deal with all the complications of keeping this blissful little relationship safe from the legal, contractual fact of a marriage she wasn't quite ready for. But tonight those troubles would have to wait. Varric still thrust against her and now he reached beneath shirt and breastband alike to touch her. She responded to him, heaving her breasts as well as any maiden in the cheapest of his novels.

And then she understood.

“You imagine me reading your books, don't you?” she whispered. “And it's so very important that I know all the references.”

He grinned, as cocky a look as ever, but Hawke saw through it.

“If I know all the references, then surely I'll see how clever you are. And that's what you need, isn't it? You need me to see that you're clever.”

The grin faded and he raised an eyebrow. “Now you're just reading into things.”

But Hawke was right and she knew it.

The smugness of her smile lasted only as long as it took him to release her breast and move his hand lower, sliding his fingers along intimate places. Not bothering to take off her smalls, he chose instead to push aside fabric until the necessary part of her body was bare. Using his finger, he held her open long enough to sink inside, little by little, until she had taken all of him. Slipping his thumb beneath the cloth and finding her clit, he resumed rubbing circles. And then, moving his hips in a rhythm that started slow but gained in speed, he worked his cock inside her until he'd found the spot behind her clit that made her thighs twitch and her pussy clench around him.

All of his focus was fleeing downward to the tip of his cock, buried so deep within her. But he held off, fighting against his release until Hawke's own fingers flew to his aid. She pressed his thumb hard and fast against her clit in a bouncing sequence until he could feel her shiver and tighten around him. He moved in her faster, with greater force, losing himself a little more in the wetness and heat of her body. Just when he feared he wouldn't last much longer, Hawke drew a stuttered breath and then moaned, high and feminine, as climax took her.

Pleasing her was about as arousing a thing as Varric could hope for. But, against both reason and good judgment, he went one further, remembering the sentiment behind Leandra's words. He imagined Hawke, not as his friend and lover, but as his wife—a wife who whispered her love as he emptied his whole self into her, trying as best he could to get her with child.

That domestic fantasy, absurd as it was, triggered a damn powerful orgasm. But, he decided—as he pulled out and rolled off of her—Hawke would never need to know about it.

* * *

Late the next afternoon, Isabela found her friends sitting on the stairs halfway between Hightown and Lowtown. Hawke was gazing into the middle distance where thinning crowds still haggled for goods at the merchants' stalls below. Varric picked at a thread coming loose from the seam of his glove. They didn't seem to be paying each other much attention, but their shoulders were touching. And when Isabela got closer, she caught the tail end of a conversation.

“Don't worry so much. I'm not going to start introducing you at parties as anything other than my good friend Hawke...” Varric frowned as he considered the matter more carefully. “...unless it's 'my violent associate Hawke' or 'my deluded companion, Hawke, who thinks she's funny'.” He shrugged. “Depends on the party.”

Hawke snorted, and then quickly turned to see Isabela, whose presence she hadn't detected until the sneaky rogue was right behind her.

Smiling at the sight of Hawke's irritated glare, Isabela squeezed her way between her two friends to sit on the steps with an arm draped over each of their shoulders. “Whose party? Am I invited?”

“Hypothetical party,” Varric said, wondering how much of the previous conversation Isabela had heard.

“Good,” Isabela said. “I can't have you planning parties without me.” She leaned forward to kiss Varric quickly on the cheek, then turned to the other side and planted a teasing, lingering kiss on Hawke's neck.

Hawke brushed her aside playfully. “Haven't you got a bar fight scheduled about now?”

“Not until later,” Isabela said. “I've been looking for you. Housewarming present.” She winked at Hawke and tapped her twice on the shoulder with a book that seemed to appear in her hand out of nowhere.

Hawke took it from her. “ _Sex the Hard Way?_ Where did you even find this?”

“Didn't you know? There's more than one seedy emporium in Darktown. But never mind that. Have a look.” With her left arm draped around Hawke's shoulder once again, she reached down to flip open the book. “It's illustrated! And there's a whole chapter devoted to threesomes.” Grinning at Hawke, she tousled Varric's hair, earning a miffed look from him, but Isabela paid no heed.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Off we go. Time for drinks and I'm buying.”

“What's the ulterior motive, Rivaini?” Varric asked.

“I'm going to butter you up and find out what the two of you are scheming this time.” She left off flipping through pages of illustrated sex acts to point accusingly at Varric. “It has to be something good to keep _you_ at the dwarven merchants' hall for so long.”

“It was nothing,” Hawke mumbled and then, to avoid making eye contact, she looked down at the book, resting innocently in her lap. “Just a contract.”

“Tricky one,” Varric added. “Lots of ins and outs.”

At that, Hawke blushed, sudden and deep. And though Isabela noticed, she said nothing. Perhaps she chalked it up to the graphic illustrations Hawke stared at. But maybe, just maybe, she tucked it away for later, a bright little gem to flash around once Hawke had been drinking and her tongue loosened up. Because Hawke was hiding something. And secrets among friends would never do.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feel free to leave comments - supportive, critical, or to point out problematic elements in my writing that I may need to evaluate and change. Thanks!


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